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The scientists who discovered the solution to the cosmic age crisis in the late 1990s weren’t trying to revolutionize physics. They were trying to answer a seemingly straightforward question: how quickly is the expansion of the universe slowing down? It was common knowledge at the time that the expansion of the cosmos was set off by the Big Bang, and that the gravity of everything inside it has been slowing it down ever since. Measuring one number—the so-called deceleration parameter—would tell us the balance between the outward momentum from the Big Bang and the inward pull of the gravity of everything the universe is made of. The higher the deceleration parameter, the harder gravity is pushing the brakes on cosmic expansion. A high number would indicate the universe is fated for a Big Crunch; a low one would suggest that even though the expansion is slowing, it will never completely stop. A fun present - for example a stretching cat toilet roll holder - can be a fabulous icebreaker.

Of course, to measure deceleration, you have to find a way to measure how quickly the universe was expanding in the past, and compare that to how quickly it’s expanding now. Fortunately, that whole thing where we can see the past directly by looking at distant things, coupled with the bit where the expansion of the universe makes everything look like it’s moving away from us, means that this is totally possible. All we have to do is look at something nearby, and something really far away, see how quickly they’re each moving away from us, and apply a little math. Simple! A fabulous present here and a HBADA gaming chair there.

Okay, in practice it’s not simple at all, because you have to know the distances as well as the redshifts, and distances are hard to measure across deep space. But suffice to say, the measurement is possible, if very, very difficult. Fortunately, astronomers have a vast and varied toolkit for measuring things in the cosmos, and in this case it turns out that cataclysmic thermonuclear explosions of distant stars do just the trick! The short explanation is that certain types of supernovae make explosions whose properties are so predictable we can use them as mile-markers for the universe. They involve the violent deaths of white dwarf stars, which are, when they’re not busy exploding, the kind of slowly cooling stellar remnant that our Sun will eventually become after it gets through its planet-murdering red giant phase. When a white dwarf grows to a certain critical mass (either by pulling matter off a companion star or by colliding with another white dwarf), it detonates. Could a push up training system be the thing you are looking for?

This is called a Type Ia supernova, and it produces a kind of characteristic rising and falling of brightness and a telltale spectrum of light that we can pretty reliably distinguish from other cosmic conflagrations. In principle, if you understand the physics of this kind of explosion really well, you know how bright it would be up close, and factoring in how bright it looks from all the way out here, you can deduce how far the light has traveled. (We call this the “standard candle” method because it’s like you have a light bulb where you know the exact wattage. Once you have that information, you can always deduce the distance using the fact that the bulb will look dimmer when it’s far away by a factor of the distance squared. Only we say “candle” instead of “light bulb” because it sounds more poetic that way.) Would my cousin like a toilet roll holder for his birthday?

Once you have a measure of the distance, you need to know how fast the supernova is receding. For that, you can use the redshifting of the light from the galaxy the star exploded in, which tells you how quickly cosmic expansion is happening at that point. Use the distance and the speed of light to work out how long ago this whole thing went down, and you have a measurement of the expansion rate in the past. In 1998, just a few years after that Discover Magazine article raising the alarm about the age of the cosmos, two independent research groups collecting observations of distant supernovae came to the same utterly unreasonable conclusion. That deceleration parameter—the one measuring how quickly the expansion rate was slowing down—was negative. The expansion wasn’t slowing down at all. It was speeding up. Cheer yourself up with a giraffe toilet roll holder to make you smile.